


Broken Bones are Stronger

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Problem Sleuth is avoiding Spades Slick, but Pickle Inspector has really been given no choice but to bring them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Bones are Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [my own blog](http://imagineyourotk.tumblr.com/), haha. I hope a lot of people end up writing enmity fic based on this thing, because I'm having a ball with it.

Problem Sleuth is avoiding Spades Slick. You know this because he told you.

"Oh jeez," he says, when you ask, "I dunno. Maybe I should just give it some time." He treats you to a half-smile, which is about half as dazzling as his full smile, which is to say that your heart only skips about half a beat. It's not really that you're in love with him. It's just that Problem Sleuth could make a rock fall for him if he smiled enough. You try not to appear too taken-in; if there's one thing Sleuth likes as much as he likes flirting with anything that moves, it's taking advantage of the gullible. The other thing he likes seemed to be Spades Slick, which makes all of this very confusing for you.

"I thought you and he were..." You don't know how to finish the sentence, so after you trail off, you try it again. "I thought..."

"Yeah, well, if he wants to be a whatever with me, he can let me know," says Problem Sleuth shortly, dropping the charm.

So he mopes around in his office for days. You spend a lot of your time in your office, so you can tell. Problem Sleuth is a man of action, who needs to be moving and talking (mostly talking) constantly, just to feel like he's getting anything done. So having him confined to his workplace is extremely unusual, and for awhile you'd feared he'd locked himself in again, and it would be another hellish series of unlikely and bizarre events getting him out. But no, he's just grumpy and frustrated when there's no phone call, no letter, and no visit from his... whatever.

Usually, Problem Sleuth gets a lot done, but you don't see him for days on end. After nearly a week of him showing up and getting comparatively nothing done, you begin to need some space. You can feel him in the next room over, hear him pacing around and practicing benevolent trial forgiveness speeches, occasionally interrupted by loud desk-banging and throwing a lot of his things about. You slip out, carefully edge by his door; he is rifling through his filing cabinet like a man possessed and doesn't notice you.

You wander out into grey Midnight City streets, and nearly walk straight into Spades Slick, who is loitering conspicuously outside your building. He scowls ferociously but looks oddly happy (which is to say, he's showing a lot of teeth) until he looks up and realizes it's not some other detective in a white trenchcoat.

"Oh," he growls, and the misanthropic anger in his voice doesn't attempt to contain itself, "it's _you_."

You freeze. You've never known how to behave around Spades Slick. All you really know about him is that he's short, contains most negative emotions most of the time, and that Problem Sleuth and he are... whatever. That doesn't give you a lot of clues, but it's safest to assume that Spades Slick is angry and frustrated. He usually seems to be.

"Just what I fucking need," he snarls. "Is the fat guy coming down next? Is this some sort of shitty three-goat-bridge thing with you?"

You try your best to look like you know what he's talking about, and feel mildly offended that he couldn't even manage a "Good day," or even a nod or a "Hey," in your direction before going off on you. You attempt to make up the difference. "Good afternoon, Mister Slick," you say, and your voice barely trembles at all, "what brings you out this way?"

"What brings me..." he pauses, digesting. " _What brings me out here?_ Oh, you know, I was just in the area and I thought I'd bring over some tea and cookies for you and your stupid fucking teammates is all." That seemed nice enough, but then he spoils it by darting forward and grabbing your collar to pull your face down, closer to his height. "Fuck you," he says, dismissing what you begin to realize was a pleasant lie. " _What's he doing?_ "

It took you a moment to realize he was making fun of you. No, the phrase is too light. It took you a moment to realize he was mocking you. You frown. "I beg your pardon," you say delicately. You are honestly astounded at how courageous you are being in the face of Spades Slick. You can't think of a lot of things more frightening than he is in order to make it a metaphor.

"You better beg for more than that," he says, "if you don't tell me what he's doing." At your blank, taken-aback look, his lip curls and he rolls his eyes expressively. If he tried, you think inadvertently, Spades Slick could be just as theatrical as Problem Sleuth. Which is obviously who he's talking about. But Problem Sleuth didn't want to see him, or maybe he wouldn't like you messing around in his... whatever.

"Oh," you say. "He's just. He's been. He's upstairs."

"Doing what?"

"W...ork?" you hazard. It's a lie, and you both know it, but you have a feeling it would be what Problem Sleuth would want you to say.

Spades Slick's glower suddenly transforms, his entire face suffused with fury. "You tell him..." he begins, and then stops, getting eerily calm. The anger in his face clears. "No wait," he says. "I'll give you a message for him."

 _That was remarkably reasonable of Spades Slick,_ you think, the second before he punches you in the stomach with his robot arm. His elbow comes down on your back, and then you're down on the ground before you even process the thought _he's going to kill me_. He's going to kill you and leave you on the doorstep like a mangled, broken-necked bird the cat took. He's laying into your ribs, laughing as he kicks. The sound rises and floats through the empty street. You try to curl in on yourself and protect your poor ribcage, but you keep feeling agonizing stabs of sharp shoe driven into you.

You're going to be sick, you think, raising your hands to protect your face as his kicks get a little higher. You can't believe someone would be so cruel to you. Abruptly, though, he stops, seizing one of your wrists and dragging it behind your back at an angle that makes the muscles almost tear.

You're weeping, you notice belatedly, whimpering and whining with the pain as Spades Slick puts one bony knee down on your back to restrain you; as if you had the strength and energy to get up, let alone fight back. He leans down, until his mouth isn't far from your ear, and mutters in it.

"Just tell him I dropped by, hey?" You hear the rasp of a crisp card being drawn from the deck, which halfway through the long sound gains a terrifying metallic ring. Spades Slick pauses a moment, unmoving, and you realize he's considering where to stick you. You could die. You could die from Problem Sleuth's weird thing with this criminal and you can't do anything about it.

But the weight is lifted, your wrist is released, and Spades Slick only says, as casually as if he, you know, met you on the street, "Tell him to get his ass back over to the club tonight if he knows what's good for him. Or," and Slick laughs nastily, "if he knows what's good for you." With a practiced flick he throws the knife at you, which buries its edge in your hat brim and lodges there, the point poking through just in front of your eyes. You can see the K and the spade on the corner.

Then Spades Slick ambles off, looking as amicable and jaunty as a sharp-toothed gang lord can; he actually sticks his hands in his pockets and begins to whistle. You listen to it fade into the distance and, as it vanishes, heave yourself to your feet. It is an awkward task and not an enjoyable one, and it takes far longer than you would have liked. You catalogue injuries. Ribs: bruised and several almost assuredly fractured. Arms, legs: intact, but with a rainbow of bruises swelling along them at intervals. Head: splitting.

You haul yourself back in the door (you've had enough air for today, apparently) and look at the flight of stairs unhappily. You're dizzy and you still feel like you might vomit, and you are not anticipating the walk up them.

You're not wrong; it is brutal. But you would very much like to not feel like this again, so in the interests of keeping Spades Slick well away from you, you manage. Several stops are required, and it takes easily half an hour to get to the second floor. You hobble to your office and don't bother to knock at Problem Sleuth's; by this time he'll probably have gotten bored and gone home anyhow. You knock over your fort, which has the good foresight to have been made of couch cushions this time around, and collapse on them, shaking.

You stay there until Problem Sleuth comes in and stands in the doorway, staring at you with your assorted bruises and cuts bleeding through to your jacket, with the king of spades lodged in your hat brim. You stay there while he calls an ambulance from Ace's office; Ace is gone for the day, so Problem Sleuth breaks in with some amount of enthusiasm. You don't care so long as you don't have to move. You stay there while you both wait for it, and Problem Sleuth takes the card out of your hat and puts his hand on your back.

He doesn't smile, and you wish he would; it would be nice to have a fluttery feeling that wasn't linked to shock. He just looks grim and troubled, and when the ambulance does come and the doors close, you can see him pull up his coat collar and begin to walk into the city. You are too distracted by pain to care that you didn't pass your message along, that Problem Sleuth is going back to that criminal, that as long as they keep doing... whatever, you run the risk of being the way Spades Slick can win an argument.

You don't care. You just, eventually, drift off under the weight of some impressive painkillers, and dream of a glittering smile.


End file.
